


couldn't seem to die

by HereSay_ThereSay



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Reincarnation, Sad Alexander Hamilton, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 14:11:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16265840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereSay_ThereSay/pseuds/HereSay_ThereSay
Summary: There was a pain in his neck.It wasn’t excruciating, wasn’t unbearable, wasn’t even unusual , given his working habits.The only thing that made such an ache in any way remarkable was the placement.If Alexander was going to be hurting anywhere, surely it would be around his mid-drift. His torso. His ribcage.Where he’d been shot .





	couldn't seem to die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sanna_Black_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/gifts).



> Wow, look at this! I can't possibly mention Everyone who inspired this, so I'm tagging the biggest influences. This is, of course, gifted to the God of the Hamilton Reincarnation Fic, and although this isn't Super similar to their story format, I can honestly say this story would not exist had I not read their works, so. Cheers, mate.
> 
> This was posted from my phone, so there will be formatting updates later!

There was a pain in his neck.

It wasn’t excruciating, wasn’t unbearable, wasn’t even _unusual_ , given his working habits.

The only thing that made such an ache in any way remarkable was the placement.

If Alexander was going to be hurting anywhere, _surely_ it would be around his mid-drift. His torso. His ribcage.

Where he’d been _shot_.

And yet, the only thing he felt was a dull ache in his neck.

It was still dark, wherever Alexander was, but slowly, his other senses came back to him.

Solid ground beneath him. A brick wall behind him.

A sharp, sour smell in the air.

A cool breeze across his face.

The mindless chatter of passers-by, the rumbling of some sort of engine, the sound of footsteps against pavement.

Finally, Alexander opened his eyes.

He appeared to be resting behind a tall, brick building, the slight overhang of the windows of a few upper floors providing the only barrier between Alexander and the light misting of the rain that swirled all around him.

The ground seemed to be paved, and tall metal canisters, each one overflowing with refuse and waste, flanked Alexander at both sides.

It seemed death had overlooked Alexander, but, as he surveyed the garbage he was sitting in, he realised karma certainly hadn’t.

Alexander took another moment to gather his bearings—he was in an alley, certainly, and there was some sort of technicolour paint covering the brick of the building in front of him, and a mysterious brown puddle sat near his left foot—before hoisting himself to his feet, the chill of the air and the rain cutting into him.

Whatever he was wearing, it certainly wasn’t what he’d died in, and it most definitely wasn’t suited to his current surroundings.

A thin top, not unlike an undershirt, was all that covered his torso, while his legs were half bare, the rough, tan trousers he worse only going down to his knees. His shoes were no better, a pair of laced slippers with white caps and soles that appeared to be made of painter’s canvas.

The world seemed to spin as Alexander righted himself, fuzzing and blurring at the edges. Alexander shook his head as he stumbled out of the alley.

The city—for it was certainly a city, even if Alexander couldn’t tell which one—was impossibly bright. Lights hung from cords overhead, flickered in the windows of the shops that surrounded him, were beamed from the front of the carriages that sped down the black and grey paved roads.

Even the people who surrounded him seemed to be infected by the light, many of them carrying little slips of metal and glowing glass.

It was brilliant, and it made Alexander sick.

Where was he, that carriages ran of their own volition, where massive glass buildings seemed to be reaching for the heavens, where lights were made without flame and held in the palm of a person’s hand?

“Man, are you alright?” a voice asked from Alexander’s left as a hand was placed on his shoulder.

Alexander spun so fast his head hurt.

The man who’d spoken to him looked like no man of proper standing Alexander had met in the colonies—before, certainly, but not since he’d landed in New York—but was in no way homely in appearance, with brown curls and tan skin and green eyes and a star chart of freckles across his face.

“I-I’m well, yes,” Alexander forced out, his voice high and scratchy and foreign to his own ears.

“You sure?” the man asked. “‘Cos, uh, you’ve been standing here for about 20 minutes, and you’re not really dressed for the weather—”

“Your kindness is appreciated, sir, but really I’m… fine. A bit lost, but apart from that—”

“Any idea where you’re supposed to be headed, then?” the man pressed.

Alexander swallowed, his throat thick. “No, but I’m certain I’ll figure it out,” he admitted.

“Dude, I dunno where you’re from, but where I’m from? That’s pretty damn far from fine,” the man said.

“Really, I assure you—”

“Look, man, do you have anywhere to go?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then c’mon, you can crash at my place until you figure where to go or whatever,” the man insisted.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,” Alexander countered. “For one, I can hardly intrude on the home of a man whose name I don’t even know—”

“Asa,” the man cut in. “My name’s Asa Buyers. You?”

Alexander blanched. It’d hardly be good form for people to know that the former treasury secretary was staggering around some foreign city in what could hardly be described at undergarments, and if the man—Asa—didn’t recognise Alexander’s face, he’d certainly recognise his name.

“John,” he finally blurted out, saying the first name that came to him. “Jonathan Schuyler.”

It was a stretch. Alexander was doomed. Surely, this man knew of the Schuylers, and from there would be reminded of Alexander’s visage and—

“Well then, Mr. Schuyler, what do you say you come over to my place, alright? It’s just a block or so away, shouldn’t be more than a ten-minute walk, and God only knows how bad I want to get out of this rain,” Asa said, interrupting Alexander’s spiraling thoughts, before turning on his heel and gesturing for Alexander to follow.

“Wait,” Alexander said, grabbing Asa by the wrist. “Why are you doing this?”

“What kinda heartless asshole sees a guy lost as all hell in the rain and just leaves him?” Asa asked.

Alexander looked around for a moment. “All of the people passing us, actually,” he finally replied.

Asa laughed, his eyes crinkling around the corners. “Guess you got me there,” he conceded. “Now, you coming or not?”

**

There’d been doors that opened without prompting, and little cupboard-sized rooms that magically transported those standing within them to a new location, and boxes that emitted music without any sort of gear or lever.

“Is there anyone I should call?” Asa had asked as they stood in the magical room. “Y’know, a friend or family member or something?”

Alexander had considered it for a moment. He could ask for his dear Betsey, or his son James, or any number of colleagues—

And yet…

He felt it would be a fruitless endeavour.

He was alone.

“No,” he had finally answered. “No one of whom I can think.”

“Alright,” Asa had replied warily. “If you think of anyone, just let me know.”

Eventually, there had been a quiet _ding_ , and the metal doors of the room had opened and revealed the corridor in which Alexander was currently standing.

“I’m number 36, lemme find my key,” Asa said, digging in the pockets of his trousers (they were full length, and blue, and oddly close-fitting). “Alright, here we go,” he muttered, pulling out a key. “Neither of my roommates are home yet, but they should be soon. I already texted them about you, though, and they’re cool with it, so just… relax, y’know? I’ll get you a-a coffee, or something, or you can nap, and we can talk later.”

Alexander nodded, and Asa quickly unlocked and opened the door bearing the number 36, revealing a small apartment. The main space was split between a kitchen, with some sort of metallic oven and long countertops and a tall, black chest, and a parlour, with a well-worn sofa against one wall and a comfortable looking chair and a few bookcases against the other, and a counter flanked with stools seeming to be the dividing factor between the two areas. There were three off the main room, which Alexander assumed to hold bedchambers and some sort of washroom.

“Just crash on the couch,” Asa said, gesturing to the sofa.

Alexander did as instructed, or at least what he _figured_ he’d been instructed to do, if _crash_ , in this context, meant _sit_. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said quietly.

“No problem, man. I’d get some sleep, if I were you. No offense, but you kinda look like the south end of a northbound horse.”

Alexander couldn’t stop the light laugh that bubbled in his throat at Asa’s words, and tried his best to do as was suggested.

**

“And you brought him here _why_?” a voice asked sharply.

“He was just standing outside the shop, and Chase was gonna call the fucking cops on him for loitering or some shit, so I went out to, like, warn the guy, but…” another voice—Asa—replied in hushed tones.

“But _what_ , Ace?” a third voice pressed, this one with the faint twinge of an accent that Alexander recognised as French.

“Dude, for all you know, this guy could be a serial killer or satanist some shit,” the first voice pointed out.

“Guys!” Asa protested. “He’s not—he’s not a fucking _psychopath_ , or whatever. I think he’s, like, high, or something. He talks fucking _weird_ , and he doesn’t have anyone to call, and you shoulda seen how he reacted to the goddamn _elevator_.”

“So you see a _drug addict_ on the streets outside your work, and your first thought, ‘yes, let’s bring this man into our home,’? Is _that_ what you’re telling me?” the French voice asked incredulously.

“Well, I couldn’t just _leave him there_ —”

“He’s not a _dog_ , Buyers—”

“They woulda called the cops!”

“ _Mon Dieu_ , Asa—”

Alexander decided it was a good time to open his eyes and properly assess the situation.

There were two new people in the room. Both black and quite tall, one wore his hair in a puffy bun atop his head, while the other had his covered with some sort of grey cap. The capped one was much darker, and the puffy-haired one had a short, well-trimmed beard, and they both wore clothes very similar to Asa’s.

And they both were staring right at him.

Alexander cleared his throat and slowly sat upright, running his fingers through his hair to smooth it.

It felt different than it had that previous morning as he tied it up on his way to Weehawken, but Alexander pushed that thought from his mind.

There were more pressing matters at hand.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I believe there’s been some sort of misunderstanding.”

The capped one folded his arms over his chest as the puffy-haired one scoffed.

“My name is Jonathan Schuyler,” Alexander lied easily, thanking Providence for allowing him to remember his pseudonym. “Your friend invited me to your home after finding me lost on the streets. I assure you, I mean no ill will toward any of you, and, if you’ll allow me a moment to gather myself, I’ll be out of your hair swiftly.”

The men looked at each other, then at Asa, then finally back to Alexander.

“You were lost?” the puffy-haired—and French, it seemed—one asked.

“By all technicalities, I still am,” Alexander replied.

The two men studied him closer. “What did you say your name was?” the capped one asked.

“Jonathan Schuyler,” Alexander repeated. “Simply ‘John’ will do, however.”

“Alright, John,” the capped one said. “Here’s the deal—I’m not really one to let random strangers hang out at my house, but Asa seems to think you’re alright, and if you’re _really_ lost—”

“I swear to you I most definitely am—”

“—then it’d be kinda a dick move for us to just toss you out on the street and say sayonara, live long and prosper, all that. So, you can stay for a bit until you figure out where you’re headed. Sound good?”

Alexander understood roughly 60% of what the man said, but it was enough to know that, yes, that _did_ sound good.

“Better than I imagined, actually,” Alexander said. “Although, and forgive me if I’m wrong, I don’t believe I ever caught your name, or that of your companion.”

The puffy-haired man smiled. “Gien Beaulieu, but you may call me Gi,” he said, extending his hand.

“Marcus Ford,” the other said after Alexander had shaken Gi’s hand. “Just Marc is fine. And you already know Ace, right?”

“Ace? Like the playing card?” Alexander asked.

“Yeah, because apparently, two syllables were too many,” Asa said, speaking for the first time. Gien rolled his eyes.

“You say that as if you don’t love it,” he countered. He turned back to Alexander with a mischievous smirk on his face. “You should hear the jokes he makes. The man can hardly get through an introduction without mentioning being the ace up someone’s sleeve.”

“It’s a good joke!” Asa protested.

“ _Oui_ , maybe the first time. After three years, however…”

“What he’s saying is that you need new material, man,” Marcus interrupted, snickering.

Asa pouted. “You see what I deal with?” he asked Alexander. “Living with these two assholes?”

Alexander was a bit taken aback by the flippant way Asa used such crude language—the way all three of the men seemed to be so careless with the expletives. Alexander had hardly heard such language since he’d worked as von Steuben’s translator.

“You say that as if you are not just as bad, Buyers,” Gien pointed out.

“I would hardly describe any of you as something so… profane,” Alexander interrupted. “Men of such poor character would never allow a stranger into their home.”

The three men shared looks. “Where’re you from, man?” Marcus asked. “No offense, you just… don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

Alexander winced. He’d noticed it, too. The roughness of his voice, the odd placement of the vowels. He hardly sounded like himself. “Originally, I’m from Nevis and St. Croix, but more recently I lived in New York—”

The three men sent Alexander looks so odd he failed to continue.

“Man, do you have _any_ idea where you are?” Marcus asked.

“I _assume_ somewhere in the British Empire, seeing as English seems to be the most common language, though I must admit it’s hardly any sort of English I’ve heard,” Alexander replied.

“The British Empire?” Marcus asked, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“Yes,” Alexander replied. “Surely you know of the British? You are, after all, speaking English, and your friend seems to be French, and the French have no fiercer enemy than the British—”

“John, are you sure you’re alright?” Asa asked, concern evident in his features. “You haven’t hit your head or anything lately?”

“I’m fine,” Alexander assured him, although his hand did drift to the spot on his torso where he could still feel the ungodly pain of a bullet ripping through him.

“Have you been to a hospital recently?” Gien asked, he too looking troubled by Alexander’s words.

“I…” Alexander trailed off. He could hardly mention the duel, or _dying_ , now could he? “No, sir, I have not,” he finally answered.

“John,” Asa said slowly, as if speaking to an infant. “You’re still in New York. We’re in Queens, right now. This _is_ New York, in the United States, 2018, the whole nine—”

“Could you repeat the year, please?” Alexander interrupted, doing his best not to show the fear that was bubbling just below the surface of his skin.

“2018?” Asa repeated.

Alexander felt the world shift for the second time in as many hours.

“Is there a washroom anywhere?” he murmured “I simply—I think I may need a moment.”

“Yeah, right through there,” Marcus said, gesturing to one of the doors. “But—”

“Alexander was already closing the door behind him.

 _Two-hundred and fifty years_.

Two-hundred and fifty years since Weehawken, since Burr, since Eliza rested her head against his shoulder and Angelica smiled at him from across the room. Two-hundred and fifty years since he’d held little Philip on his lap, since he’d smiled at Ms. Smith as he unlocked the door to his office on Wall Street., two-hundred and fifty years since he’d placed the last bouquet of flowers on his son’s grave.

He could hear his new companions whispering from the other room—about his odd manner and abrupt exit, no doubt—but Alexander didn’t care.

 _Two-hundred and fifty years_.

They were all dead. His friends, his colleagues. His children. His Betsey.

All dead, all gone.

It had different, dying, knowing he would never see them again, but that they’d carry on, that their lives would continue, that they could still be happy, still do great things.

But now, alone, with everyone he’d ever known rotting underground…

Alexander’s stomach was twisting into large, tangled knots.

He was gripping the basin, leaning against it as his knees felt weak.

There was a mirror above the basin, Alexander had noticed as he’d entered, and he then went to look into it, if only to gather his own thoughts.

The face that greeted him was not his own.

He had never been blessed with the pure, fair complexion of his peers—he wasn’t dark by any means, but…

No one from Nevis had skin as pale as snow.

Still, he was hardly as dark as the face that now stared at him, olive-toned and tan.

Gone was the long, slender nose that had graced his portraits, the red hair he’d worked so hard to powder each morning, the violet-blue eyes that charmed women (and, though Alexander would never admit it, men) throughout the colonies.

Instead, his nose was slightly hooked, and his hair and eyes were dark as onyx.

Alexander hardly restrained the cry that threatened to tear from his throat as he lifted his hands to his face.

Was he truly here, stranded and alone, 250 years into the future, without even the simple comfort of wearing his own visage?

“John?” Asa asked through the door. “John, you alright in there?”

“I—I’m well, thank you,” Alexander answered, wincing at the sound of his voice.

No wonder it sounded so high, so odd.

It wasn’t his.

Nothing about him was his to claim. Nothing but his mind, his memories.

For a moment he wondered if, should he look, he would find any scar, any pockmark, any sunspot or freckle.

Was this body even his to claim, or had he simply stolen that of another?

It was all too much, and Alexander soon found himself doubled over what he assumed to be some sort of toilet.

“Seriously, man, you seemed pretty freaked, are you sure you’re okay?”

Alexander didn’t reply. He couldn’t. His words—his _words_ —had left him, emptied like the bile from his stomach.

“John, I’m coming in,” Asa stated, finality evident in his tone.

Alexander didn’t know if he’d be able to argue, even if that was what he wanted.

Alexander didn’t even want to imagine what sort of sight he must’ve been as Asa slowly opened the door. On his knees, bent over the basin of a pot, with surely a few tears sliding down his nose.

“Oh shit,” Asa muttered, crouching down next to him on the floor. “John? C’mon, man, let’s get you up, okay? You don’t want to stay down here, it’s fucking gross.”

He seemed to be rambling to himself, but his words were calming, soothing Alexander like a balm.

Like the words of a man he’d known so, _so_ long ago.

He carefully pulled Alexander to his feet and led him back into the parlour before sitting next to him on the sofa and looking him over.

“John,” he said quietly. “I need you to be completely honest with me, alright? I want to help you, but I can’t unless you tell me the truth.”

Alexander distantly realised that Gien and Marcus had left the room.

“Are you sure you haven’t hit your head recently, or been to the hospital, or anything like that?”

“If you’re questioning the state of my sanity,” Alexander spat, the words tasting like poison in his mouth. “I assure you that it’s intact.”

“John…”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Alexander protested. He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear to have even his _name_ lost to him. What did it matter if this man knew who he was? His opinions on Alexander had obviously been formed already—and even _that_ was hardly of any consequence. Alexander was _no one_ . He _had_ no one. Everyone who mattered was _dead_ , long dead, like Alexander _should’ve been_.

“Don’t?” Asa asked. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t _call me that_ ,” Alexander replied. “My name isn’t John.”

“Then what—”

“Alexander,” he interrupted.

Asa looked taken aback. “Alright,” he finally conceded. “Alright, Alexander. I gotta admit, you’re sorta freaking me out here—”

“Believe me, the _freaking out_ is mutual,” Alexander muttered, the unfamiliar phrase bitter as it rolled off his tongue.

“What does _that_ mean?”

“It means that I am just as confused as you are, Mr. Buyers,” Alexander replied.

“Alexander, I need you to tell me what you think is going on here,” Asa insisted. “I promise, I won’t judge you, or-or throw you out or anything I just want to know how I can help.”

“Why?” Alexander asked. “ _Why_ do you want to help? I’ve never met you before in my life, you certainly have no idea who I am, there is _absolutely no reason_ for you to care as much as you apparently do. Your friends are right, you know. I could be insane, or some sort of addict, or—”

“But you said you weren’t,” Asa countered. “You said you were lost, and there’s something wrong, and call me a bleeding heart or _whatever_ , but I actually think I should try and help people when they’ve got a problem, okay?” He smiled for a moment. “The world has enough assholes as it is. I think it could _use_ some people who care.”

Alexander sighed. “You’ll think I’m mad,” he said.

“But you said you aren’t.”

“That won’t make what I’m going to say sounds any less preposterous,” Alexander pointed out. “If anything, it’ll seem _more so_.”

“Maybe so,” Asa replied. “Guess you’ll just have to tell me and let me decide for myself.”

Alexander took a deep breath. “My name is Alexander Hamilton,” he said slowly. Something almost definitely synonymous with disbelief crossed Asa’s face. “I awoke this morning in the year 1804. I… _died_ in 1804, only to find myself in an alleyway behind the street on which you found me.”

For a moment, Asa was silent.

Then, “Hamilton?”

“Yes?”

“Alexander Hamilton? Like, Treasury Secretary, National Bank, lots of writing—that Alexander Hamilton?”

“Unless there's been _another_ Alexander Hamilton with those traits since my death, I suppose _yes_ , I am _that_ Alexander Hamilton,” Alexander said.

Asa stared at him for another moment.

“Oh thank _God,”_ he finally muttered, his face falling forward onto Alexander's shoulder.

Alexander didn't try and hide his confusion. “I beg your pardon?” he asked even as Asa’s arms came up and wrapped around his torso.

It was then that Alexander noticed the man was crying.

“Asa?” he asked, placing a hand atop the man's head, feeling for a fever. “Asa, I must insist you tell me what is going—”

“ _Alexander_ ,” Asa muttered. “Thank the Lord, Alexander. I thought—I thought _maybe_ , if I was lucky, it could be—it would be—but I never thought you'd _remember_ —”

“Asa!” Alexander finally snapped. “You're making no sense!”

How ironic, that Alexander was saying that, even as his own existence in this world made no sense.

“Alexander, Alex, it's _me_ ,” Asa said emphatically, looking up and grasping Alexander by the shoulders. “My dear boy, it's me—”

“ _John_ ,” Alexander whispered, and suddenly he saw—suddenly he couldn't _unsee_.

The smile. The laugh. The endless, relentless compassion, so persistent Alexander had been able to understand it.

The light behind those green eyes, the same light that had shone behind blue so many years ago.

“Yes!” John replied, “Yes, God yes! _Alexander_ , my Alexander—”

John wasn’t the only one crying.

“How—why—what is this?” Alexander asked, his hands coming up to cup John's face.

It was so _different_ , and yet still so _John_.

“I don't know,” John replied. “I—I was a _child_ , Alexander. With a _family_ , a mother and a father. This was simply _life_ , and then one day, on school, I… the _memories_ , Alex, I was so—”

Alexander could see the tears pooling in John's eyes, and quickly pulled him closer. “It's alright, John. It's alright,” he murmured, pressing an absent minded kiss to John's temple, for the moment uncaring that Gien or Marcus could walk in at any time and discover them.

“I thought I was _alone_ , Alex,” John whispered, a dozen years of pain, of solitude brimming in his words. “Even when I found Gi and Marc, they don't remember, no matter how hard I try, and I just thought—”

“They don't remember?” Alexander interrupted. “They—they're like us, then? Whatever this is, they are a part of it as well?”

“Our dear Marquis and Mr. Mulligan, I'm sure of it,” John answered. “But they don't know, and nothing seems capable of reminding them. I thought, maybe, I could, but I've tried and—”

“It's no matter,” Alexander said. “You have me, now, and the others will come around eventually, I am sure.”

John stared up at Alexander, his cheeks wet and his eyes aglow, and Alexander wanted nothing more in that moment than to pull him closer, to kiss him and hold him against his chest.

John, his wonderful, _magnificent_ John, seemed to know his thoughts. “Kiss me,” he insisted in that take-charge sort of way he always got. “Kiss me, Alexander.”

“But the others—”

“Will hardly care. What we are—Alexander it's _fine_ , here, now. We can—we're _free_ , Alexander, _please_ —”

How could Alexander refuse?

They moved in a harmony that spoken of months and years of practice, coming together like twisted melodies, forming a single, exquisite symphony.

As if no time had been lost.

As if John had never died, as if Alexander had never left for Congress, as if nothing past those nights in Valley Forge had ever occurred.

All the tragedies, all his mistakes, wiped clean as he sat there, pressed against his Laurens, his John.

They finally pulled apart after what felt like eons, Alexander brushing a loose curl from John's face.

“It seems our positions have been reversed,” he stated quietly, not wanting to break the spell that had fallen over them. “You seem to be in possession of the freckles and curls now, my dear.”

John huffed and ducked his head, a blush steadily rising to his cheeks. “Much has changed,” he said. “The world, Alexander, you should see it. No more slavery, no more hangings, no more trenches and pox. People of every colour can succeed at every position, women are granted the same status as men, men can get _married_ —it's like a dream, Alexander.”

Alexander's head was reeling. “How?” he asked. “Has—has the world truly become such a paradise in such little time?”

For as long as 250 years was to Alexander, in the scope of the world, of history, it was _nothing_ , and yet so much, _so much_ had been accomplished.

“There is still work to be done, of course,” John said. “I fear you will encounter such obstacles, my darling. The plight of people of colour has lessened, undoubtedly, but it is far from remedied, and I don't know if you've seen your reflection since you awoke, but—”

“I am aware, yes,”Alexander replied. “It is… jarring, I must admit, but…”

Alexander didn't know what else to say.

“Things _will_ be alright,” John assured him. “Things are already so much better than I could have ever imagined, and that's without even addressing the technology this new age has brought—”

“The light boxes!” Alexander said. “And the horseless carriages, and the magic room—”

“Magic room?” John asked, a little smirk appearing on his face.

Alexander narrowed his eyes at him. “Not all of us had the advantage of growing up in this new world, Laurens, and if you can give me a better explanation for the room that carried us from the entrance of this building to your floor, I will _gladly_ hear—”

“It's called an elevator,” John interrupted. “It's pulled up and down by metal cables.”

Alexander's eyes grew wide. “ _Cables_?” he asked. “What if they break—”

“They don't.”

“We could _fall_ —”

“We won't.”

“Crushed to death or flattened—”

“ _Alexander_ ,” John said, placing a hand on his arm. “Relax. I've taken elevators my whole life, and I've yet to be crushed or flattened.”

Alexander sighed. “You must admit, it _is_ strange—”

“So is life here, my dear boy,” John interrupted. “You get used to it.”

For a moment, Alexander was silent, and then, just as he was about to reply—

“You two okay in there? Asa? You're alright?” Marcus asked as he opened one of the doors. “We heard shouting, and crying, and Gi said to give y'all time, but honestly I'm more than a little concerned, so—”

“We're fine, Marc,” John replied. “Just… catching up.”

“Catching up?” Gi asked, poking his head around the doorway. “I thought the two of you just met, _non_?”

John smiled. “Nah, we, uh, actually knew each other, a long time ago. Just… a lot’s changed. Took a minute to recognise each other.”

“Really?” Marcus asked. “Where'd y'all meet?”

“Army,” John said without hesitation.

Marcus raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Alright,” he said. “Uh, you want Gi and I to, uh, get lost, or…?”

“Y'all can stay, if you want,” John said.

“But you'd _prefer_ for us to get lost,” Gi concluded, a single eyebrow raising.

John sent them a sheepish smile. “Yeah…” he admitted.

Marcus shook his head and Gi rolled his eyes. “The things we do for you, Buyers,” Marcus said.

“Truly, be thankful for our love,” Gi agreed.

“I always am, Gi,” John said, a large grin on his face.

Marcus scoffed. “C’mon, babe, let's let Asa and his buddy have their catch up time in peace,” he said, grabbing a jacket and a cap off the rack next to the door as he slipped an arm around Gien’s waist.

A moment later, they were gone.

Alexander felt his jaw drop. “That's Lafayette and Hercules,” he said, eyes wide.

“Yup.”

“And they're—”

“ _Yup_.”

“Dear God,” Alexander whispered. “Things certainly _have_ changed.”

John laughed, his head thrown back with the force of it all.

“You said we met in the Army?” Alexander questioned.

“Yeah,” John replied, scratching the back of his neck. “Best to stick as close to the truth as possible, right?”

“You served, then? In this life?”

“Joined at 17,” John said, a small smile on his face. “Got me all through college. Actually, I just got out of the reserves last year.”

“How old are you?” Alexander asked, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“Twenty-nine,” John answered.

Something dropped in Alexander's stomach.

“Two more years,” he said.

“Yes,” John confirmed. “Though I didn't remember for the first ten or so.”

Alexander didn't know how to feel. “What do you do now, then?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.

“I'm a nurse,” John replied. “Actually, I'm think about going back to school, getting my M.D. and all that, but I thought I should maybe get my feet under me first. No trust fund to catch me this time.”

The words were almost bitter. There was a story there, Alexander was sure of it, but the look on John's face kept him from pressing.

“I'm proud of you,” Alexander said, the words almost catching in his throat.

“Huh?” John replied, none too succinctly. It brought a smile to Alexander's face.

“You're here, doing what you always wished to do, living, thriving in this place. You've obviously overcome some hardships, yet you’re living the life we always wanted for our people, for America. I'm proud,” Alexander explained.

There it was, that sheepish smile that curled on the edges of John's lips. “And now, we can do it together. Another chance, for both of us,” he said, taking Alexander's hand.

For a moment, Alexander thought of Eliza, who he'd hurt so many times, who he'd left, who had spent God only knew how long alone before being lowered into the cold earth. He thought of his children, of how he'd loved them but not valued them, left them fatherless and penniless.

He'd made so many mistakes, and yet he'd been given a second chance.

He'd be damned before he threw it away.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you do me a solid and tell me what you think?


End file.
